


Losto Mae, Little Brother

by lordhellebore



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherhood, Brothers, Disability, Disabled Character, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Gondor, Kid Fic, Minas Tirith, Physical Disability, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3081551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With their mother gone, a young Boromir is alone in his worries about his brother's health. There is little that he can do but provide comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losto Mae, Little Brother

**Minas Tirith, 2991 T.A.**

Boromir finds it hard not to run, but he knows that at thirteen years of age, he is too old to behave like a child any longer. Only children run – men can master their impatience. When he was smaller, he would race through the Steward’s House, his footfalls echoing through the long corridors and open halls. Now, he walks briskly, like the soldier he is training to be, like he knows it pleases Father, who tells him how important it is for a ruler to look dignified. He is tall already, almost a man, taking long strides, and yet it takes far too much time until he has reached Faramir's room. It is too far away from his own and from Father's chambers, though of course, that is precisely the point. 

Faramir was not at breakfast this morning, and Boromir knows what this means, and he hates it. He would have liked to go to him, then, see how he was faring, but he knew that Father would never tolerate him missing his training. He is grateful that his preparation for ruling Gondor one day is taken so seriously – it is a huge task, and he has much to learn. Still, he wishes that there could be exceptions for days like today.

When he arrives, he does not bother with knocking. If Faramir is asleep, he would not want to wake him. He needs the rest. But when he enters quietly, he finds that while Faramir is lying in bed, he is awake and not alone. Eldacar is with him, sitting by his bedside. The small chamber smells strongly of familiar herbs and salves, and Boromir inhales deeply. It is the scent of the Houses of Healing, and Mother had often smelled like it after she had helped the healers take care of the sick.

Eldacar is one of them, is the Master Healer, in fact – nobody else would do for the son of the Steward. Boromir does wish, though, that another healer were charged with this task, one with a more friendly demeanour, who does not behave as though his chosen profession were cumbersome and his patients a burden.

“Boromir.”

Eldacar has not looked up since the door opened, and as Boromir closes it behind him, he ponders the fact that he would know just who entered. It is not surprising, he decides – Faramir’s lessons are in the afternoon, and it is not quite the time for a servant to bring lunch. Nobody else would come, other than Boromir.

“Master Eldacar.” 

Boromir is polite, although he dislikes him, dislikes how he looks down at Faramir with his mouth twisted into a distasteful expression, as though he were looking at something unpleasant. Still, he seems gentle enough as he applies salve to Faramir’s fingers and wrist, which look swollen and misshapen like an old man’s. Boromir knows that if he were to touch them, he would feel the unnatural heat of inflammation.

“Taking the day off, little brother, eh?” Boromir sits down on the other side of the bed, grinning at Faramir, who gives him a crooked smile in return, though he winces as Eldacar wraps his hand with clean bandages.

“Now,” Eldacar says when he is done, the frown never leaving his face, “you know better than to sit up. I shall return when it is time for more ice packages.” It is clear from his voice that he believes he has more important tasks, but Boromir knows that he will fulfil his duty meticulously. It was Mother’s dying wish for him to look after Faramir, and however much Eldacar seems to dislike it, he had revered her. He would never have denied her or go against her wishes even now. 

As he reaches for a cup on the bedside table which must contain Faramir’s painkilling tea, Boromir shakes his head. “Let me.”

With a disinterested look, Eldacar hands him the cup before he gets up and leaves, not bothering to take the salves and bandages that he brought with him. He will need to use them on Faramir again soon enough, when he returns in the afternoon.

When the door closes behind him, Faramir sighs in relief, and Boromir relaxes as well.

“You would think a rat had crawled in his mouth and died there, the way he looks as if he wants to throw up all the time.”

Faramir smiles at the joke, and it is more genuine this time, grey eyes lighting up in his strained little face. He is small for his eight years, and thin, Boromir thinks, or at least he knows that he himself was stronger. But then, Faramir cannot run or climb as much as Boromir used to, cannot participate regularly in the training like Boromir has done ever since he was six. 

“Speaking of foul tastes . . .” Boromir raises the cup.

Faramir grimaces, but drinks obediently when Boromir holds it to his lips; he knows from experience that it will help against the pain. It is experience most boys gain only over the course of training, when they get injured out of clumsiness or carelessness. Boromir knows the bone-deep exhaustion resulting from days of running and riding, has been sore and bruised all over from training at arms for hours on end, being hit with the wooden training swords over and over again. But even now, after seven years of it, he is certain he has never known this kind of pain. It is clear from the way Faramir grits his teeth, how his eyes well up with tears at every movement when the pain is at its worst, although he has barely cried ever since Mother died. Father dislikes it.

Now as well, when Eldacar had moved his arm and hand, Faramir had been suppressing the tears, biting deep into his lower lip. Boromir looks him over, finding each joint thickly wrapped – ankles, knees, hips, shoulders and elbows, wrists and hands. Sometimes, when the inflammation comes, it is not all of them. When only his arms or hands are affected, Faramir can still walk, though even then, he will not come for meals with Boromir and Father.

“How bad is it?”

Faramir shrugs, then cringes in pain. “It has been worse.”

“But not much?”

After some reluctance, Faramir looks down. “No,” he admits. “Everything hurts, even with ice packs and salves and Master Eldacar’s tea.” It is an unwilling mutter, and Boromir wishes, as always, that he could do something. If Faramir were healthy but unskilled in his training, he could help him, show him how it is done and practice with him every day. If other boys were picking on Faramir, he could make it stop. He could order them to leave him be, and if they did not listen – he should be too mature, but he has no compunctions about making his wishes clear physically.

But this is not something he can make go away, and it hurts every time to see Faramir like this, sick and in pain. It reminds him of Mother; Faramir looks so much like her, though he has the same hair and eyes as Father and Boromir. It is impossible for Boromir not to see her, looking at him, and as he thinks it, it occurs to him for the first time that Father might see the same. That this might be why he keeps staying away.

“Boromir?” It is as though Faramir could read his thoughts. “Do you think . . .” He falls silent for some moments, his face working mutely. “Do you think Father will come this time?”

“I . . .” The truth is that he does not believe it. “I cannot say.”

Faramir draws a trembling breath, clenching his fists reflexively as he struggles against the disappointment. The pain is what drives him over the edge. Watching, Boromir feels terribly helpless. Faramir does not cry like the child he is; he lies motionless, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks in silence. As always, he is trying to make Father proud, though he does not even manage not to displease him, through no fault of his own. Boromir hates it, hates how he cannot help but feel anger at Father for ignoring Faramir, who is no less his son.

He has to think of the happy hours he spent with Mother and Father, who gave him his first lesson at swordplay, his first child-sized uniform, his first horse at the age of six. He was the one who told Boromir of Gondor’s history, of the Númenorean Kings who were the ancestors of the Steward’s House as well. And even when he was overburdened with work in precarious times, he always made time to bring Boromir to bed when he was smaller.

He has done none of these things for Faramir, and it has only got worse since Mother died, for all of them. Boromir missed her desperately for the better part of a year, but the pain has dulled over the two years that followed. He has his comrades with whom he trains, he has Father, and he has Faramir. Faramir has only him.

And Father . . . he has changed, has become colder and sterner, though he has never been a cheerful man. Boromir wishes that he could help him. He remembers how Mother did it, how she was able to chase away Father’s frown and his worries at least for some moments – and sometimes hours – and he tries his best to follow in her footsteps. But while he does manage, sometimes, it is not the same. Not for Father, and not for Faramir either.

Still, Faramir is crying in this unsettling, far too quiet fashion, eyes wide and dark as he keeps staring up at the ceiling. It makes Boromir’s stomach twist as he tries to imagine how he must feel. None of this is fair, and it should not be Boromir who sits by his bedside for comfort. But however much he may resent it, he knows that there will be nobody else.

Glancing at the door, he makes certain that Eldacar closed it behind him before he shifts closer to Faramir on the bed and carefully places his hand on his brother’s clammy forehead. It is large and calloused from swordplay, not at all like Mother’s cool, slender hands, but like he did when she had sat with him during every bout of his illness, Faramir closes his eyes. For a moment still, Boromir is hesitant, then he begins to sing.

It is Mother’s old lullaby that she brought from Dol Amroth, a soft, melancholy tune, the words Sindarin, which Boromir does not understand. He only knows that the first words, “losto mae”, mean “sleep well”. She had sung it for them every evening, and for Faramir whenever he had lain sick abed. Even when she herself had been weak and bedbound, she had sung for them, and at ten Boromir had not felt too grown-up yet to rest his head on her shoulder and let her caress his hair.

Boromir knows that he is no great singer, and he sounds nothing like her. Still, as he half-sings and half-murmurs the familiar, unintelligible words, her clear voice seems to resound in his head, now more again than a fading memory, and he struggles to prevent his own voice from shaking.

It must be the same for Faramir, for while he could stay collected before, now he is sobbing, contrary to what Boromir intended. Not knowing what else to do, Boromir waits. When he arrives at the end of the song, he sings it again, and again, never taking away his hand. Finally, Faramir is lying silent once more, his breathing evening out. He must be sleeping.

“I miss her so much. I wish she were here,” Faramir whispers just when Boromir wants to pull away.

“I know, little brother. I wish the same. Now sleep; I will stay with you.”

Faramir sighs, but there is no answer, and after some more time has passed, Boromir knows that he has truly fallen asleep. Carefully, he gets up, sitting down at Faramir’s desk instead, where a small book bound in leather tells him that the day before, his brother was reading an Elvish poem in one of his lessons.

Looking down at the book, Boromir frowns. Eldacar cannot help Faramir, he had told their parents. There is no healing for this illness that makes his joints swell and ache at unpredictable times, that prevents him from ever running or wielding a sword or a bow without pain. But maybe it is only that Men know no cure. Elves are much wiser, possess much more knowledge, it is said. 

Father is not fond of them – in his eyes, they abandoned Men and ended their alliance. No help from Elves has come to Gondor since Isildur died. He is a wise man, and his views make Boromir wary. But then, were not the Kings of Númenor, their ancestors themselves, descended from Elves?

Thoughtfully, Boromir traces the Tengwar that spell Sindarin words on the parchment. Father will not allow it now, he knows, but maybe one day . . . He will be a man soon, and if the opportunity arises, why should he not try and seek the counsel and help of the Elves?

Over on the bed, Faramir shifts and whimpers. Boromir gets up and returns to his side. As he places his hand once more on his forehead, Faramir calms, sinking deeper into sleep.

“Losto mae, little brother. I will find a way.”


End file.
